


walking after midnight

by ivorygates, synecdochic



Series: mezzanine [16]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Identity Issues, Imported, Incompatable Sexual Orientations, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Rule 63, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-08
Updated: 2008-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:25:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates, https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morning-after realizations are sometimes uncomfortable things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walking after midnight

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally posted 2008-04-08.)

Last night Daniel took a notion, and even if it's a notion she's been aiming him toward for the last six months, wasn't ever any telling when he'd get there, or even if he would, because Cammie knows plenty of nice straight boys willing to jack off a buddy and she's never known a man yet that'd turn down a blow-job regardless of the plumbing on the person giving it but straight boys who suck cock ain't all that damned common in Cammie's experience and (no matter what _some people_ might happen to say on _some_ occasions) she is _not a fucking moron._ Her honeybaby is straight (inside his head anyway, where it counts.)

And because she ain't a fucking moron, she also knows Nielson's just biding his time before having his own goddamned asshat meltdown. An' that's on account of he sees half of last night for what it was, an' not the other half. 

She's up and awake and moving before the clock ticks over from 0559 to 0600. There's a cup of pills at her bedside, which means Himself is already up and out of the house. Gone running, has to be. She nudges Daniel (enough to get him moving; consciousness is gonna have to wait) and drags herself across the bed, making her way into the Master Bath while he lurches to his feet and heads for the kitchen. By the time he's got the coffee started she's done with bathroom and pills and it's on to morning exercises (hurts like a whorefucker, and she can't skip them, and they can't wait, so mornings when Daniel's on the clock it's coffee, juice, and a muffin-or-toast here and he _swears_ he eats breakfast in the Commissary.) The exercises're even less fun this morning.

Daniel's a little puzzled at Nielson's absence (she can tell.) Not puzzled enough to question it (that'd require _consciousness_.) Out the door promptly by 0715, and he'll probably wake up some time along his route. She's done with the morning's side-trip through Hell by 0730 (as usual), and if it was a _normal_ morning, Nielson'd be yowling about his throat bein' cut an' him starvin' to death any minute, only the little bastard still ain't here.

He comes wandering in a touch after nine, soaked with sweat. "We taking an early retirement, Mitchell?" he asks, walking into the kitchen.

"Figured you run off and joined the fucking circus, asshole. I was gonna put up your half the company on Craigslist, see if I could drum up some interest." His side of the bed was stone-cold at six, so she's thinking four-hour run, minimum. One is usual. Sometimes two.

He scrubs a hand through his hair; it's soaking wet. "You'd have to pay them to put up with you," he shoots back, but she can tell his heart really ain't in it this morning.

"Get your skinny ass the fuck out of my kitchen and into the shower," she says. "Bad enough I have to put up with you without havin' to smell you too."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he says, walking off.

When he's well out of the way she grits her teeth, levers herself to her feet, and gets to work on breakfast. Momma always said that empires could rise and fall but you might as well cook breakfast anyway. And for just about all of the past twelve years (certainly ever since JD Nielson slouched into her life) Cammie's followed Momma's advice.

Half a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon, six pieces of (burnt) toast, home fries and three cups of that _slop_ Nielson calls coffee later, he's ready to start lying to her (her, himself, the fucking wallpaper. Don't matter.)

"All different kinds of coercion, Mitchell," he says, staring down into his coffee cup. Sounding mild as milk, and maybe there could might'a been somebody dumb enough to take that at face value, back in the day. For about thirty seconds or so. Her, she sees the storm flags flying. And she don't give a big rat's ass. "Come again?" she says.

He looks up and meets her eyes. His are snapping sparks, but he's not quite ready to kick over from 'pissy' to full-on furious. "I _know_ you aren't as fucking stupid as you look, Mitchell. Nobody could possibly be that brainless. And I know what you've been doing. I've gone along with it. Up to a point."

"Time t'say 'no' was last night, that's what you think," she answers bluntly. If they've always given each other honesty - and they have - the other thing they owe each other is as much protection as anyone outside your own head can provide you from self-delusion in all its forms.

She sees him wince; the barest flicker. "Daniel-" he says, and stops.

Sympathy is the last thing he'll accept from her on this subject. He can see - clear as day - that Daniel thought the whole thing was about as sexy as his last prostate exam. Can't see that Daniel _wanted_ to do it anyway, when he could'a just sat back the way he's been doin' for months and let Nielson do _him_. It's love, and even if it ain't quite the same kind Nielson's got for him (and won't show, and it hurts her to see how easy it is to keep Daniel from seein' it, but the boy's smart about a lotta things and that ain't one'a them) it's still love. She's pretty sure - now - they'll get the rest'a the way, with time.

 _"Daniel,"_ she says back, "'s gonna do just as he damned pleases."

 _"Daniel_ is going to do what he thinks will please you," Nielson comes back with, and they're sliding out of 'pissy' into the place where they ain't gonna be able to communicate 'cept by IM until one or both of 'em cools down, and it's been some few years since one a those fights, meanin' Daniel hasn't been around for any of 'em, an' she thinks if he was to be, he'd start runnin' and might not stop.

So she laughs at him. "Yeah, wasn't me had his face in my crotch last night. I'm guessin' you better rethink that notion, Nielson."

Nielson loves her, and Cammie loves _him_ (Daniel loves her too, but don't matter if he's the one they're arguin' about, he's pretty much beside the point in this discussion), and because she's loved him and lived with him so long, she don't back down from his anger and can pretty much guess at all the arguments he thinks up but won't come out with, from: _Daniel didn't want to do that_ to _he only did it because he thought you wanted him to_ to _I'm not in the market for a pity fuck_ to _I/you/we coerced him into this but it has to stop now._

"This isn't what I want," he finally says. His voice is quiet. There's no anger in it now. Only the faint echo of … grief. Maybe not even his. Maybe even he doesn't know whether it is or not.

"Nothin' ever stays the same," Cammie answers (as much sympathy, as much understanding, as won't send him running off again, because she knows damned well (has known for years) that anything to do with Daniel Jackson flicks Nielson on the raw.) It's something Nielson (something Jack O'Neill) knows better than she ever will. But some things are things a body needs reminding of. _Things change._ This thing they have (the three of them) will keep changing (not stable, not yet) and it'll become something that works for Nielson (turn into what he wants and can't believe he can have: turn into something he can live with: end lock, stock and barrel) or else something none of them can calculate yet will happen. Cammie has what she'd call an educated guess (based on knowing people, on knowing _Daniel_ ) which it'll be, but she in't going to say. Not today. Maybe ever. Life's a crapshoot, Daddy says (an' most poor suckers throw snake-eyes.)

"More words of wisdom from your family?" Nielson asks. But the impending apocalypse is off today's schedule. He gets to his feet and begins clearing the table. "If you don't get your lazy ass downstairs, Mitchell, it really isn't going to matter one way or the other, since the three of us are going to be out on the street and living in a large cardboard box, and the authorities of this fine metropolis frown on public displays of sexuality, however construed."

"Fine talk from somebody been showin' his ass all over town when he should'a been here workin'," she mutters. But she drags herself to her feet (Jesus Whorefucking Christ _on a pony_ ) and starts off for the elevator.

"Thank God I have you to keep me honest, Mitchell," he answers fulsomely.

She snorts and doesn't answer. The words are mocking (she'd expect no less) but there's honesty in them as well. That's how the game is played.


End file.
